


Chicken Noodle Soup Loving

by lakeshoredive



Series: Fics based on my tweets [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Absolute feel good fluff, Bucky is a big baby when he's sick, But Steve loves him anyway, Fluff, Kinda, M/M, Mild Gore, Nurse Steve, One Shot, Sickfic, allusion to space nerd Bucky, at the beginning, based off a tweet I made, based on the what... if series pics that came out, sick Bucky, very very mild allusions to a praise kink, you know the ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 16:41:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21461209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lakeshoredive/pseuds/lakeshoredive
Summary: “There you are,” a voice says to his right. He rolls his head, a feat that feels like rolling a boulder up a hill, to his left, and standing above him, in all his 5 foot 4 inch glory, blissfully small and un-zombified is his Steve. He sighs. Counts to ten. And sighs again.“Steve,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and pushing into the hand on his shoulder. The hand tightens and gives him another shake.“Nuh huh. You gotta stay awake. I got medicine for you,” Steve says. Bucky lets out an involuntary whine. He doesn’t want to be awake. He wants to sink into Steve’s touch and never resurface. Maybe Steve will let him, if he looks miserable enough.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Fics based on my tweets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578019
Comments: 13
Kudos: 97





	Chicken Noodle Soup Loving

**Author's Note:**

> wow it's been some time since I've posted anything huh? Anyway enjoy this little one-shot based on a tweet of mine that I couldn't let go. Unlike my last fic, this one is completely fluffy and feel good for the most part. I guess there's like mild gore in the beginning- but a blink and you'll miss it kind of thing.

He was on a train. It was like that movie Steve made him watch once. _You’re waiting for a train…._ Only he’s not waiting for a train. He’s on the train. And he has no idea how he got here. 

Bucky doesn’t like trains. 

The train is speeding. He can feel it under his feet, up through his bones. It’s going faster and faster and faster, screaming its way down the tracks. Going so fast he can hardly see the landscape outside. If there’s any landscape at all. 

Dim lights cast an eerie ominous glow around him. And there’s a distinct odor about. It’s horrible. It makes him want to cover his nose and mouth with a cloth. It smells like a sewage pipe burst, or rotting garbage in the blazing sun. He wants to gag on it. 

And for all the noise around him, the car feels silent, oppressive, charged with the feeling of something is coming. The hairs on the nape of his neck stand at parade rest. 

Then he hears _it_. 

It sounds like groaning, a raspy sort of moaning. Gargling on words and breaths. It’s a horrible sound, animalistic and demonic all at once. It’s the sound of monsters. 

Slowly, Bucky turns his head, like if he spins too fast the delicate balance of the car will topple. He gets the feeling he’ll be on the toppling end. He does_ not_ want to be on the toppling end of it. He’s holding his breath, assessing. He sees it. He freezes. 

Standing there is Steve. Or a monstrous, grotesque zombie like version of him. He’s huge, humped back but still towering over Bucky in a way _his_ Steve physically doesn’t. The odd, patriotic red, white, and blue uniform has rotted away in parts, revealing green, equally rotted skin underneath. His jaw hangs loose, unhinged like a snake. But what scares Bucky the most are his eyes, yellow pupils swimming in the milky opaque whites of his eyes. They’re dead eyes, unseeing and filled with nothing more than desperate hunger. Whatever it is. It’s on the hunt. And Bucky is its target. 

It screams and growls at him. It’s whole body lurches forward with the force of it and then draws itself back, standing at full height. It takes a round disk, a_ shield_, painted red, white, and blue with chipped, bloodied paint, and throws with all it’s might right at Bucky. He doesn’t understand how something dead can possess the strength it has. Something dead that knows it’s dead but doesn’t care. 

Bucky reacts without thinking. He catches the shield with his left arm. His left arm made of metal. He has a metal arm. _What the fuck_? He hadn’t noticed it before, which seems like a very big thing to miss. 

He flings back the shield. It embeds itself into the creature’s chest with a gory squelsh, the sound rotten fruit makes when your thumb goes through it. The rotting odor takes up every crevice of space in the car. Bucky is choking on it. The creature screams again, rage filled, and claws at the shield in its chest. The force of the shield nearly rips its delicate, horrible flesh in two. It bleeds black. Bucky doesn’t hesitate. He surges forward, running at a speed he did not know he had, and kicks the zombie out of the car. It goes flying through the door, screaming as it falls. 

And as if the presence of the creature was the only thing keeping the train on the track, the train starts to shake. Bucky stumbles and reaches for the back of a seat to steady himself. Chandelier crystals clink together as rumbling worsens. 

_Buck. Bucky c’mon baby wake up- _

The train lists to the side, threatening to come off the tracks completely. Bucky grips the chair tighter, becoming increasingly aware that the train is high above ground. He thinks he’s about to fall. He knows he’s going to fall. He’s falling- 

_Falling-_

** _Falling- _ **

He- 

He opens his eyes. Their ugly acne eggshell ceiling stares back at him. There’s a weight on his shoulder, pressing light but gripping steady. “There you are,” a voice says to his right. He rolls his head, a feat that feels like rolling a boulder up a hill, to his left, and standing above him, in all his 5 foot 4 inch glory, blissfully small and _un-zombified_ is his Steve. He sighs. Counts to ten. And sighs again. 

“Steve,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and pushing into the hand on his shoulder. The hand tightens and gives him another shake. 

“Nuh huh. You gotta stay awake. I got medicine for you,” Steve says. Bucky lets out an involuntary whine. He doesn’t want to be awake. He wants to sink into Steve’s touch and never resurface. Maybe Steve will let him, if he looks miserable enough. 

Steve doesn’t. He just gives him a rougher shake until Bucky cracks one eye open to glare at him. Steve just grins, all honey sugar sweetness back at him. He’s still in his navy blue scrubs, and Bucky _could_ say that Steve in his scrubs doesn’t do anything for him, but then he’d just be a lying liar who lies. 

“C’mon, honey,” his voice softens. “I know you don’t feel good, but just sit up for me and I’ll let you go back to bed.” 

“Dunno why you’re not an RN with that bedside manner,” Bucky grumbles as he attempts to untangle himself from his blanket cocoon he’s made for himself. He gives a few half hearted tugs at the sides of his burrito before looking up at Steve pathetically, begging him for help. 

Steve rolls his eyes at him, and lets out an indignant huff. He pulls up to his full height, which is not very tall at all, but seems to tower over Bucky from this angle, and raises an eyebrow at him, all defiant and stubborn. That’s why he’s not an RN. 

“I can’t get out,” he wiggles around in his confines. 

“I can see that,” he says, still not moving to help him. 

“Aw c’mon don’t be mean,” he’s taken on a whiny tone, one that he’d normally be wincing at, but as the case stands that he feels like pure shit run over by a speeding taxi, he lets the sleeping dogs lie. “I’m sick.” 

All Steve’s defiance breaks as his lips tug up into something that can only be described as fond. Bucky feels his own lips tug up into an equally as fond smile. Then he sneezes and ruins the moment. 

The congestion sitting at the front of his skull has decided to make itself known, pounding in the space between his eyeballs. He tries to roll over and push his face into the couch cushions. He thinks he’d rather his head just explode if it’ll relieve the pressure. He tells Steve as such. 

Steve tusks under his breath, showing absolutely zero sympathy as he says, “Well your head’s less likely to explode if you just sit up and take the medicine I slaved away getting you.” 

“You mean the medicine Sandy gave you because she loves me,” Bucky mutters through a mouthful of couch cushion. Sandy, the nurse at the front desk loves him, has told him so. She even wondered how he could stand such grouch like Steve. Bucky said he didn’t know, and suffers _terribly_ for it. He’s kidding of course. But he’s not entirely sure Sandy is. He really should ask Steve why Sandy hates him so much. 

Steve scoffs, loud and offended. “These are my hard earned dollars going into your care, Buck. _Sandy_ don’t have anything to do with it.” He rolls back over to face Steve, squirming in his blankets. He should have a quip ready, but he’s starting to get hot. Too hot. Instantly, it’s like a thousand fire ants have invaded his cocoon and are biting the shit outta him. 

“Hot,” he groans, struggling around the blankets more. He can feel the sweat start to bead on his forehead. He wants out of the blankets. _Now._

“Alright, alright. Easy honey just let me-” Steve cuts off, his whole face a mask of concern, brows pinched and lips drawn in tight. It’s the same look his ma had every time they came home with some various bump or bruise. He wonders how Sarah’s doing. He should give her a ring soon, when his head is trying to jack hammer off his neck and his throat doesn’t feel like someone poured sand down it. 

Just like his ma, Steve became an ER nurse, and Bucky has never been so damn proud of him in his life. He remembers all the late nights studying, all the doubts, the breakdowns and near breakdowns. And here he is, taking care of him because he’s the best guy Bucky knows. 

“You’re the best nurse ever, Stevie,” he slurs as Steve meticulously unwraps the blankets from his body. Bucky swears he can see steam slithering up from his skin. 

Steve laughs quietly above him. “You’re just saying that ‘cos I’m saving you from a heat consumin’ death.” 

“No,” he pouts. “It’s true. You take care of me so good.” And finally, _finally_ his arms are free and it’s like he can breathe again. 

Well, not really breathe, his nose is still stuffed up and there’s a whole dinosaur taking up residence on his chest, but the cool air feels nice on his burning skin. 

“Not as good as you took care of me,” he mumbles low, still working the remaining blankets until there’s only one sheet left, and Bucky can’t help but preen a little. Not to pat himself on the back, but he was exceptionally good at wrangling a sick and cranky Steve Rogers in their youth. 

Steve’s still got the concerned, pinched look to his face when he leans down and presses a cool cheek to Bucky’s forehead. Bucky sighs and his eyelids flutter shut. It feels nice, especially when Steve turns his head and presses his lips for a long, sweet kiss. 

“You’re still warm,” he says, brushing back Bucky’s hair from his forehead. It has to be a sweaty, rat’s nest by now, and Bucky almost wants to tell Steve not to touch it. Bucky prides himself on his hair. He takes care of it, uses all the right products and tools to make it as luscious as possible. And right now, it can’t be more than a flat, greasy mess. But he also knows that if he tells Steve to stop, Steve will know his reasons and aggressively keep his hands in his hair to prove a point. It’s better to just let Steve love on him anyway. 

Bucky hums because, yea, he still feels crummy, and yea, his fever hasn’t broken yet, but Steve’s here and got a cool hand on his forehead and fingers running through his hair and it all feels so damn _good_, Bucky’s eyes start to water. 

“Oh honey,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky can’t help but pull him down onto his chest. Steve goes down with a yelp, and Bucky grunts at the added weight, but he doesn’t _care_. 

“_Buck_,” he sounds put out, trying to get up from where he’s sprawled. It’s a losing battle, he has to know. Bucky’s arms are around him like cast iron chains. Steve won’t be leaving anytime soon. 

Or maybe he will because he knows all Bucky’s spots and will mercilessly tickle him until he relents. Most people don’t know it, but Steve Rogers is a dirty, dirty cheat. 

But he must not be in too much of a mood because after a few more moments of struggling, he relaxes, placing a chin on Bucky’s chest and smiling at him. 

“I need to get your medicine,” he says, not moving. 

“Fuck the medicine,” he grumbles, but it comes out more like _fuckdamedcine_ because he still can’t _breathe_. Steve, the bastard, lets his weight + gravity fall even more heavily onto him. _Fuck_ gravity, and he takes back everything nice he’s ever said about him. 

(He doesn’t. He loves Steve so goddamn much it hurts sometimes.) 

“You won’t be saying that when you can breathe properly again,” he laughs because he’s mean and has terrible bedside manner. 

“Don’t need to breathe when I have you, sugar,” he coos, trying to sound sexy and sappy but it really comes out as a croak and Steve laughs even harder. He pouts at him. Steve shimmies up to kiss him on the nose, and it leaves Bucky more breathless than the 110 pounds of righteous bull terrier on his chest. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, pulling away with a smile on his face. 

“You love me,” Bucky pouts, if possible, harder. 

“That I do,” Steve shimmies up again and presses another kiss to his nose, and Bucky doesn’t know how he can stand it. He’s so sick and knows he’s disgusting because he hasn’t had the energy to shower in _days_, and sure Bucky likes his baths just as much as the next guy, but not when he’s half lucid, and Steve is the one that has to sponge him clean. Steve is terrible at sponging him clean. Steve’s an ER nurse. Steve doesn’t give sponge baths. Bucky’s eyes start to water again, this time a few tears spilling down his cheeks. 

Steve shushes him and wipes his tears and pulls himself a little higher so Bucky can bury his face into his neck. He distracts Bucky with stories from work, going on about how Sharon drew the short stick and had to remove a 13 inch purple glitter dildo from a 50 year old man’s ass because it got stuck. And that _yes_, Sandy did ask after Bucky and actually made him chicken noodle soup _as if I’m not capable of making you goddamn chicken noodle soup._ To which Bucky responded, _no you aren’t capable of making me goddamn chicken noodle soup. The three tubs in the fridge are all from your ma and mine._ And then Steve tickled him because he’s the worst kind of asshole ever. 

“We’re gonna be eating chicken noodle soup until we die,” Steve groans, resting his head on Bucky’s chest. He laughed until his laughs turned to coughs and he began to shiver. Steve gently raps his knuckles against his chest and hums. 

“Here’s what I think we should do,” he starts, adopting his Authority Voice, the one that normally gets Bucky hot and bothered, but right now is just making him whine about the prospect of moving. “I think we should some medicine in you, get a few spoon-fulls of soup if you think you can stomach it, and get you to bed. Sound good?” Bucky pretends to think on it, as if he has any say in what’s about to happen. 

“I didn’t know _you_ were my medicine, Stevie,” he leers. Steve looks at him a moment, as if retracing what he had said, then rolls his eyes so hard Bucky’s surprised he didn’t pop a blood vessel. 

“Hm. Maybe previous diagnosis was wrong if you’re feeling good enough to make dick jokes,” he says flatly, but Bucky can see the laughter in his eyes. 

“‘M always feeling good to make dick jokes,” he says through a smile that’s too genuine to be as sharkish as he’d like. 

“Well if that’s the case then I guess I’ll just leave you to it,” he says, rolling up and off Bucky in one fluid motion. 

“It’s my brand, Steve. I can’t help who I am,” he mock complains. Steve barks a laugh and pulls a blanket over him. Bucky’s sick idled brain panics, briefly and swiftly, shooting a hand out to grab Steve’s thin wrist as he turns to leave. 

“Just going to get your meds and heat some soup, honey,” he says, voice kind and eyes even kinder. He leans down to press another kiss to his forehead. Bucky let’s go of his wrist. 

As he’s leaving, Bucky wonders if he should tell him about the weird dream he had. About the train and the zombified version of his boyfriend and the metal arm- speaking of which- Bucky looks down at his left arm, still flesh. It’s mottled with scars from the accident years ago, but not made of metal. He almost kind of wishes he had a metal arm. He’d be like a robot, like from his books. That’d be pretty neat. 

He’s puzzling through the mechanics of having a metal arm when Steve walks back in juggling- _oh no_\- liquid medicine, a glass of water, and a bowl of soup.   
“I’m not taking that,” he says immediately. He could cry again, only this time not because he’s brimming with so much love tears are his only outlet, but because Bucky fucking _hates_ liquid medication, and Steve knows it. 

“Yes,” he replies, putting the contents on the coffee table. “You are.” 

“_Stevie_.” he whines. 

“_Bucky_,” he mocks back. 

Bucky hates him, he’s decided. 

“C’mon it’s like taking a shot. You were so good at those in college,” Steve snickers like it’s funny. Bucky _was_ good at taking shots. A goddamn motherfucking _champ_ if you ask him. (Not mentioning all the mornings Bucky spent over the toilet bowl._ I couldn’t let Tony fucking Stark out-shot me Stevie. What’s a man to do?_) 

“Shots are better than that shit,” he pulls the blanket over his head. “That’s like drinking outdated _rat poison_.” 

Steve yanks the blanket from over his head. His hair flies upward and cascades down on him. Bucky glares at him, but Steve only laughs and gently brushes his hair back. 

“You know what outdated rat poison tastes like?” he raises an eyebrow. 

Bucky opts to ignore him. “What flavor is it?” He asks instead, already dreading the answer. 

Steve’s hesitation was answer enough. 

“Cherry.” 

“_Oh my God_,” Bucky wheezes. He hates everything. Hates being sick, hates liquid medicine, hates that Steve can’t kiss him better. No amount of Steve’s fingers in his hair can make this better. 

“I’m sorry,” he sounds apologetic. 

“I’m gonna _die_,” he moans. 

“It’s all they had.” 

“This is the worst thing to ever happen to me.” 

“I hardly reckon that’s true.” 

“I’d rather drink Alpine’s _piss_.” 

“_Bucky_.” 

“_Steven._” 

Steve grumbles something under his breath about _not fair that you can use my full name but I can’t use yours_, but still grabs Bucky’s wrist and pulling at him until he complies and heaves himself up with the strength of ten thousand men. His head spins and the world blacks out for a moment, but he’s got Steve’s hands on his shoulders, holding him steady and murmuring sweet nothings into his ear. _That’s it honey. Just a little longer and you can rest okay? Doin so good._ Bucky doesn’t really think he needs praises for doing the world’s simplest task of sitting up, but the words wash over him warm even when the fever’s rendered him cold again. Though it might not be the words, but rather Steve that has that effect on him. He sighs into the touch. 

“‘M good,” he mumbles. 

“You are,” Steve grins, exploiting his <strike>huge</strike> mild praise kink for everything that it is. Bucky pokes him in the ribs for it. Steve gives a hushed yelp and jerks away from him. He feels smug for all of four seconds until Steve comes to him with the cap full of artificial red cold syrup and the glass of water. 

Bucky stares at him with huge pleading eyes, his last ditch effort of _oh please oh please don’t make me take it. _

It, predictably, doesn’t work. Bucky really should learn not to try to out-stubborn Steve Goddamn Rogers. It's a losing battle every time. 

Steve gives him an apologetic smile and puts the cap in one hand, and the glass in the other. 

“On three?” He asks gently. And for the third time that afternoon, Bucky tears up. He knows it’s pathetic, and really, in every other facet of his life he’s a resolute non-crier.   
But when it comes to being sick… well… 

That’s just another story.

It probably has to do with the fact that he was never really sick as a kid, and now, as an adult, being really sick makes him more emotional than he cares to admit. 

_“I feel like one of those wives that always complains about how useless their husbands become when they’re sick.” Steve had said to him one time in college, when Bucky was buried under a mountain of blankets, out of commission and a weepy mess. Bucky glared at him, envious of Steve’s ability to function like a normal human being when sick. (Although not really. Not knowing all the scares they had growing up, wondering if this Christmas would be Steve’s last. His perseverance against illness does not come without a childhood spent fighting it.) _

Bucky shakes his head, takes a deep breath, says a small prayer that he doesn’t throw up, and knocks it back in one swing. Steve is rubbing his back in small circles as Bucky chugs the water to wash away the taste, which it doesn’t do. It really just spreads the taste around his palate like a tap dancer that’s had one too many energy drinks. 

“Feeling up for some soup?” Steve asks softly, still rubbing his back. It’s nice. 

“Yea,” he croaks out. He is feeling a bit hungry, and if anything wants the taste of synthetic cherry out of his mouth. Seriously who the_ fuck_ came up with that stuff? 

Steve hands him the bowl, warm in his hands, but not too hot to touch. He manages a few bites before handing the bowl back. Steve kisses his forehead and takes the dishes away. Bucky watches him leave, feeling nothing but so much love he’s stupid with it. He can’t wait to kiss Steve again. 

“You know,” Steve says, walking back into the living room. “I’m pretty sure I told you to stay in bed this morning.” 

Bucky hums out an affirmative because _yes_, Steve had explicitly all but _ordered_ him to stay in bed unless to get up to pee or eat. Those were his words, yes. 

“So how did you end up on the couch?” 

Bucky feels his face flush. “Uh.” He says. Eloquently. Steve’s smile sharpens.   
“Maybe I wanted a change of scenery?” He tries, even though it’s a lie and Steve knows it. There’s no other place Bucky wants to be than a bed when he’s sick. 

“You let Alpine bully you out of the bed, didn’t you?” 

“He kept sitting on my face, Steve. What was I supposed to do?” He mopes. He_ had_ planned to stay in bed all day. The_ cat_ had other plans for him. 

“I dunno? Shove him off? Lock him out?” He suggests with a shrug, holding out a hand for Bucky to take. Bucky makes an affronted noise. 

“_What_ do you think I am? A _monster_?” His voice has gone an octave higher, impressive for the way he’s currently got gravel in his throat. He takes the hand outstretched to him. “I’m telling him you said that.” 

“He likes me more I’m sure he won’t mind,” Steve says, pulling him up. 

“You take that back!” Bucky almost find himself toppled back onto the couch with how fast he spun on Steve. But Steve’s got his big hands on his arms, making big sweeping soothing strokes up and down. 

“Kidding, kidding,” he smiles at him softly. “Everyone knows Alpine only has love for you.” 

“Damn straight,” he mumbles, and focuses on shuffling back into their bedroom without passing out, where Alpine, the devil, is asleep on the _laundry chair_. He’s not even _on the bed_. He can feel Steve laughing at him, shoulders shaking in an effort to stifle his laughter. 

“Not a word.” 

“I didn’t even say anything!” 

“But you’re thinkin’ it,” he pouts, and this time Steve’s laugh is audible. It’s low and rich like a smooth melody, and Bucky thinks he could live forever in that laugh. He’s overcome with it. 

Steve carefully tips him into bed, and suddenly, Bucky is _exhausted_. Whether that be the medicine already working- which probably, Steve only ever brings home the good stuff- or that he’s been awake for more than twenty minutes and his body is demanding Z’s, Bucky sure it’s both. 

“Where you goin,’” he slurs, all the words running into each other like drunk people in a maze, after Steve finishes tucking him in tight. Alpine hasn’t moved from his perch on the laundry chair, and Bucky knows it’s just to spite him. And that Steve’s here. And there might have been some truth to Alpine loving Steve. Not the best, of course, that spot is reserved for Bucky, but Steve is a close second. 

“Just gonna change out of my scrubs. I’ll be back in a sec,” he presses a kiss to the top of his head. And he’s right. It is just a second. Bucky blinks and Steve is back, dressed in one of Bucky’s _NASA_ hoodies and those low rise sweats that Bucky loves dearly. He crawls in next to Bucky, who immediately rolls over and crushes his face in the juncture between Steve’s neck and shoulder. 

“Warm,” he mumbles, slow like the drip of molasses. Steve’s arms come around him, safe and secure, and despite being sick, there’s nowhere in the world Bucky would rather be. Steve presses another kiss to his crown of his head. 

“I forgot to tell you bout ‘m dream,” he whispers, snuggling in closer as sweet sleep crashes into him, pulling him deeper and deeper into dream land. 

“You can tell me all about it when you wake up,” Steve whispers back, all parts fond and full of love. Bucky loves the way Steve sounds when he’s loving on him. Loves it. 

“M’kay.” And then he’s asleep, snoring softly into Steve’s shoulder like he belongs there. 

He forgets about the dream in the morning, instead letting Steve pepper kisses all around his face and having chicken noodle soup for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters are mine, so all rights to marvel (even though I would treat them better than marvel ever would). 
> 
> Also funny story about the Sharon and dildo part: that’s actually a true story that my dad told me about. A very exciting time in his office about the man with a dildo stuck in his ass. You can’t make that shit up. 
> 
> Come scream and flail around about stevebucky with me on Twitter @blondboystevie
> 
> https://twitter.com/blondboystevie/status/1194445761460809729?s=20 
> 
> ^^^The tweet this whole thing was the product of!


End file.
